


Court of Stars: Part III - Cassiopeia, Canis, and Capricorn

by ivorytower



Series: Court of Stars [4]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: F/M, M/M, NaNoWriMo 2017, court of stars, wh20k
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2020-11-10 16:57:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20855159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorytower/pseuds/ivorytower
Summary: When Furian, once a soldier, now Bandit Lord of the Red Sands, takes the opportunity to infiltrate the Queen of Desh’ea’s court as a potential suitor, he finds himself unexpectedly falling for her - despite their opposed philosophies on how to rule - and drawn into the machinations of schemes that threaten all of Nuceria.





	1. Chapter 13

No one much cared for the Desh’elika mountain pass, littered as it was by stones and dusted with snow in all but the hottest of summer months. Some claimed they had found bones along the path, the sad remains of couriers between city-states that had never arrived at their destination, stalling negotiations and provoking short-lived but brutal, bloody wars.

Were it not for the fact that it was the only path between Lika’nea and Desh’ea, it was just as likely that no one would have used it at all.

The lone rider sat upon his horse, and the beast, half-mechanical and half-flesh, made a grinding, nervous sound. For a time, riders had been able to rely on purely mechanical steeds which were adapted to rough riding, and not skittish or weak like the current specimens. The war had changed that by creating a fear of machines, and now despite having the strength to obliterate a man’s head, his mount was frightened of shadows, rocks, and stray garbage.

He leaned forward, running a hand along the skin-and-flesh portion of his mount’s neck, trying to soothe it.

They were barely within sight of the city proper, and Desh’ea gleamed, shadows interspersed with lights to create wide pools of umbral space like the skirts of fine ladies. Lanterns hung from the rooftops of buildings, their electric lights steady, safer than candles, melding together older traditions, taken from Earth, with new ones.

Only a fool, or an unfortunate, would be forced to deliver messages from one ruler to another during the Festival of Lights, and he was one such fool.

Sighing, he clucked to his half-beast steed and turned away from his view of the city. He didn’t know the contents of his message, only that they were sensitive enough to warrant an in-person delivery. It was another custom of the old ways to send a messenger, rather than delivery via wire or bird, mechanical or otherwise.

“We’ve got miles to go before we sleep,” the man murmured to his steed. “And I don’t know how much _ you _sleep at all.”

“Sleep starts now,” growled a voice, and the man turned, his eyes wide as the shadows moved. A club, barely more than a shaft of metal, crashed into his head and he tumbled from his steed. The cybernetic creature screamed and reared, only to be struck by a half-dozen other attackers, leaping from the shadows to batter the creature to the ground.

The courier could feel hands on him, searching for something, anything of relevance or note, and as he bled out onto the rocks of the mountain pass, he heard a different voice, softer and less resonant speak:

“They never learn, do they, Furian?”

~ * ~

“Are you honestly telling me we killed a man and his horse for a _ note?” _Jossin One-Eye asked, disbelief colouring her tone. Furian of the Sands gave her a look, and shrugged. “We can’t eat paper. Not yet.”

“Word was that something valuable was coming through the pass,” the man said, gesturing with one hand. “It should have been something to sell, gemstones or metals, even the right kinds of spices would have done. How was I supposed to know it was a letter?”

“Can’t get things right all the time, eh?” said Nirrin the Rat, elbowing at his companion, and the big man shoved his friend back with a well-tanned elbow to the ribs. “Might as well add it to the fire.”

“Let’s not be hasty,” Arrin Flowers said, resting a hand on her hip. “Let me see it.”

“Right, Arrin can _ read,” _Nirrin said, drawing the word out. “Fancy city girl sellin’ flowers to the nobles.”

“Eat a dick, Rin,” the woman said, and held out her hand. In the firelight, the ebony of her skin gleamed, scintillating with the faintest traces of sand. “Someone has to do the thinking for you savages.”

“Puzzling out figures and a name or two doesn’t make you the Scholar-King, Arra,” Furian reminded her, and placed the letter in her hand. “Don’t strain yourself, we’re going to have to go hunting further afield if we want any half-decent prey.”

“Please,” Arrin said, rolling her eyes, and broke the seal on the letter with her thumb, then flipped it open. She stared at the words for a long moment, and then let the paper rest against her knee, smoothing it flat once, and then twice.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Furian said, and rose. He stretched, and listened to his spine crackle and pop before beginning to pace his way around the camp. There were ten of them here, and thirty more scattered in different places in the mountains that stretched between Lika’nea and Desh’ea. The mountains were, officially, part of neither nation, but instead a neutral ground where all could travel, bringing goods for trade between one city-state and the other.

In reality, the mountains were bandit-ridden, messy places with too many places for ambushes. Furian would know, seeing as he was leading the bandits.

Most of the members of their group had come from the two nearby city-states before their exile, and each and every one of them had been a criminal of some kind before joining up with him. He was no exception, nor was he the first to lead the band.

The Red Sands were an old bandit group, and not one of the original members still lived. They had been replaced over time, some dying of wounds, others of sickness, and some few, of age. Hundreds of people had come and gone from the Red Sands before Furian had joined them, and he suspected that hundreds more would come and go after he died.

There were people of all ages within the bandit group, though only the strongest adults had come with him here to ambush travelers. They had to be careful, lest the nobility start sending actual guards with caravans, instead of a handful of citizens with long pikes that couldn’t smell the attack until it was right on top of them.

_ Shame about that last courier, _ he reflected, pausing to look down over the lower mountain passes. He could see a scavenger or two poking at the remains, curious and wary. _ They should have been carrying something more important than a damned letter. _

If anyone would be able to puzzle out the meaning of the thing, Arrin would, clever woman that she was. She was a shade younger than the others, though not by more than a few years. The children -- and there were children among them, branded like the rest -- didn’t belong in the mountain ambushes.

Arrin had sold flowers in Desh’ea, and she’d been very good at it. Blooms she’d grown and tended to had adorned the hair and clothes of nobility throughout the city, or so she’d said. She’d been talented enough that she’d gotten into knife-fights with some of the other flower-sellers, and then, the people who owned them. One particular incident had seen two men dead, and Arrin sentenced to exile outside the city, to die and rot like the rest of the undesirables.

Furian had idly considered taking her to wife a handful of times, usually after they’d shared a bedroll, but he didn’t like to stay in the same one two nights in a row, and she was as prickly as roses, and unwilling to tolerate such a habit in a husband.

Still, she was beautiful, and he liked the sight of her dark brown skin against his pale brown, and the way they fit together. It might be worth giving all of that up.

He laughed out a sigh. _ Or, maybe not. _

Past the mountains, there would be valleys where farmers worked their fields tirelessly, hoping to grow something that someone was willing to buy. The city-state grew no food of its own, instead mostly relying on trade, or smaller gardens. The nobles had servants to garden for them, while those who clung to the edge between city and valley tended their own.

They made terrible targets for thieves, mostly because any individual farm would not have _ enough _to feed all of them, and if they ruined the farmers’ crops, no one would get any. Nor was it wise to go into the city. That would get them caught, and executed immediately. No, the best people to aim for were the middle merchants, the people who bought from the farmers and sold to customers in the city. Those were the sweetest of targets, and it was always a shame that there weren’t all that many of them.

Some of the bandits had once been farmers that had not been talented enough to deal with extended droughts that destroyed their crops or had been cheated out of fair prices for their wares by the merchants they now robbed. They made some of the most vicious of all bandits, resentment welling up in their hearts like so much poison.

Furian couldn’t blame them, he felt it too, though he had never been like them.

The Lord of the Red Sands had been a soldier once, and had served under the old king. The man had been, in a word, unkind, and it seemed as though his daughter would be no better. He could claim no noble intentions for his crimes: he’d been a thief, and a thug, enforcing the will of the ruling class before he’d gotten caught, and, in turn, been exiled, looking into the faces of those he’d once stood beside.

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, the warmth of his companion’s body faded, and what he could see, what he could hear and feel, was the sound of chanting, of the sergeants ordering them forward, the banners waving and snapping in the wind as they went to war on behalf of their king.

_ This is more… honest, in its way. We’re thugs, killers, murderers. We steal from people, assault them, but at least we’ve never claimed otherwise. There’s no so-called nobility to hide our greed. We need to survive, and we will, one way or another. _

Furian paced away from his ledge, leather sandals scuffing against the dirt. He had no reason to be concerned for his safety, even away from the encampment. Not clad in boiled leather armour -- a far cry from the garb of imperial soldiers, but nonetheless better than stitched together leathers -- and with his club at hand, though it was little more than a steel bar, jagged in places and stained with the blood of others who died so that the Red Sands could live.

Nirrin had called it the ‘gore-maul’ for the two things that it did, and Furian thought that it was clever enough for him to use.

Furian paced back, and found himself restless, his skin prickling, every nerve alight with a strange anticipation. _ Am I afraid? Is that what this is? Am I worried that someone will come after us? _

He considered, looking down again at the pass. All traces of violence were gone, now. They were experts, all of them, at hiding their passage. A casual observer would find nothing to indicate the courier had been murdered, and it took days to ride through the pass.

_ By the time anyone notices, we’ll be long gone. There’s nothing to fear, _ Furian told himself, nodding, finding his arguments entirely reasonable. _ ...and yet. _

And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming, something potentially dangerous. He was, for all the time he spent fighting, spent leading the Red Sands, only a man. Only an ex-soldier, only a bandit lord.

Only human.

_ Aren’t we melancholy this night? _ he mused to himself. _ I should find one of the hounds to pet, or take Arrin to bed once she finishes not being able to understand that damned letter, or Nirrin. If I keep his mouth occupied, he can’t be annoying. _

Nodding once, Furian walked back towards the camp, his mind made up. Arrin met him as he stepped within line of sight of the campfire, and she pressed her hand to his chest, urging him to wait, out of earshot of the guards.

“You have something?” Furian asked, curious. “What is it?”

“There are plenty of words I don’t know,” the former flower seller admitted. “But I understand enough of them. The letter we took from the courier was for a marriage negotiation between the Queen of Desh’ea and the Scholar-King of Lika’nea. Furian, this was _ royal _mail.”

~ * ~

Myriam Thal’kyra, the Queen of Desh’ea, inhaled and found that the night air was sweet, redolent with the perfume of night flowers blooming outside in the private gardens. The fountain burbled as water spilled from its highest tier to the lowest, and each tier was lit by a different set of lights, the colours representing the different parts of Desh’ean society. The largest tier, glowing green, represented the basic citizen caste, and some thought of the colour to be synonymous with growth, with harvesting and waving grass.

In truth, it was because, like the grass, they were a group of people meant to be stepped on.

The Desh’ean Queen often spent her evenings in her garden, no other humans in line of sight. Along the walls of the royal compound there were automated turrets, of course, and the occasional guard, their implants keeping their minds blank save for their charge, to protect the ruling monarch and her honoured guests.

Someday, perhaps very soon, there would even be family included among their identification protocols, but for now…

_ If we can secure the whole of the east between the two of us, the western cities will think twice about sending their poachers onto our lands, _ Myriam mused to herself. _ And from there, we can turn our attentions south to the mines. _

The Queen smiled to herself, coldly. The southern reaches of Nuceria were rich with metals and gemstones, even with the damage done to their infrastructure since the Great Metal Rebellion. Mostly, they required others to buy their bounty to work it, assuming they could _ find _a city-state where the ruling monarch hadn’t ordered their STC system smashed out of fear of the artificial intelligence that existed within.

Desh’ea’s ruler had been a little more brave, or a little less wise, depending on who one asked. Their STC system remained intact, though carefully isolated within a room, granted access to only a few, ancient systems that produced conservative, careful designs, like the implants, or the lights in the fountain, that powered themselves from the flowing water system.

The rest of their society had slid neatly back towards a time where there was electricity, but no computers, nothing more intelligent than an oven or a toaster to threaten them. Other forms of entertainment kept the people occupied now, ones that would never open them up to the dangers of the Iron Men.

_ And if that means that the people sweat and toil, at least they’re too tired to rise up against their betters. _Myriam bent to better smell one of the night flowers. They were beautiful, a gift from her father to her mother, back when both of them had yet lived, yet prospered, but that had been some time ago. It had been nearly a decade since her parents’ deaths, and her own ascension, and a handful of years since her siblings had at last been married off and were far, far away from her.

By all rights, she should have been married by now, to secure the dynasty and squeeze the wealth from some other house into the royal treasury, but finding the right sort of partner was tricky. The women her age were mostly married, or had become so over the course of her searching, though there were plenty of royal-blooded concubines she could take to bed, some the products of indiscretions and some, if the conspiracies were to be believed, deliberately made for just such a purpose. A number of the men had proven to be dead ends, all manners and mannerisms without offering anything concrete.

A Thal’kr queen did not give, she took, after all.

The most productive of her negotiations had been with Aaron Nerus, the Scholar-King of Lika’nea, with whom she shared the Deshe’lika mountain pass. A marriage treaty would secure both heritages, as well as their borders. If the man _ had _ambitions, it was to gain access to the last STC system on Nuceria, which was not a terrible price to pay for what she would gain.

She hoped he could at least pretend to be talented in bed while they got about the business of making heirs, before they both retreated to the attentions of their concubines, more skilled and better trained than most royalty.

_ As if there could be a man who would satisfy me on the field and in bed, _ Myriam thought wistfully. _ No such a creature exists, I’m sure of it. _

“Your Majesty,” said a voice, and she turned. Relaxation transmuted into anger in an instant, and her voice rose in a snarl.

“How _ dare _you interrupt me?” she demanded. “What fresh nonsense have you brought to my home?”

Immediately, the messenger knelt, her head bowed as she spoke next. “I apologize, but I was ordered to bring this to you immediately by the scribes. Word has arrived from Lika’nea.”

Myriam’s anger cooled, much to her surprise. “That was swift, I had not expected word back in many weeks. What does the Scholar-King have to say?”

“It was difficult to read, I believe the note was damaged in transit,” the messenger said. “But he will be arriving here with his retinue within a week’s time, to negotiate with you directly.”

The Desh’ean Queen pressed her hand over her heart, considering as the night breeze toyed with her long, black hair, tousling the gentle curls that her servants set every night and arranged every morning, not quite cool enough to make her sheer white and gold gown uncomfortable. Her pulse raced with the very thought of it.

_ He must very much like the notion of an alliance! With any luck, he’ll be as practical as I am, perhaps the rumours about his naivety are false… all to the good if he recognizes the same competence he possesses in me. I must be ready for him. A week! What kind of retinue will he have ready in a week? Unless… _

Myriam turned from the messenger and hurried along the garden path towards her inner sanctum. There was so much to prepare, and so very little time to do it. Her mind worked as she walked, and then, after a moment, walked back.

The messenger still knelt on the ground with head bowed. Myriam frowned at her.

“What are you waiting for?” she demanded. “You must inform my majordomo and the mistress of servants immediately. Dismissed!”

~ * ~

“This is a bad idea,” Arrin hissed. “A very bad idea.”

“Only if your belly-aching gets us caught,” Nirrin muttered back. “Now shut up.”

Furian ignored them. It had taken just shy of a week to prepare everything; they’d needed horses to ride, proper ones, with fine leather bridles and the saddles to match, and people to ride them. Of those the bandit-lord could bring with him, only a handful had any idea how to sit a-horse. Very fortunately, Arrin was one of them, since she was one of only a few that could read at all.

If someone asked _ Furian _to do it, they’d get the recognition of letters, his name, and little else.

Hurried messengers racing back and forth between the camps had gotten Furian an outfit. He felt awkward in the robes, as if they were too small for him, with the sensation that something was clawing at his neck. He’d bathed as best he could, shaved, and even received what he hoped was an appropriate haircut from Jossin to make himself look proper enough to, if nothing else, get past the front gates.

“It’s simple,” he had reasoned to them when he’d proposed the idea. “When I’m welcomed as a diplomat and potential suitor, I’ll have the run of the place. Why settle for the scraps when we can get the best treasure right from the source? I don’t need to be too greedy, I want just enough to get us through the next few seasons.”

“...and you want to humiliate a royal,” Jossin had said, frowning.

“And I want to humiliate a royal, particularly a Thal’kr,” Furian had agreed readily enough. “They’re miserable bastards, all of them. I’m more than willing to risk a little to win a lot.”

Furian had aimed their arrival for early evening for two reasons. The first was that it would give the impression of a lengthy ride, which would help explain any inconsistencies in their gear and dress, or so he hoped. The second was that, in the shadows of twilight, they would not be immediately recognizable, and thus, would be less likely to be stopped and questioned.

The Thal’kr, despite having a near-monopoly on electricity, hated to actually use it.

_ I never expected to see this place again, _ Furian mused to himself, looking up at the great gates. Lights were woven around them, doing more to ruin any sentry’s night vision than anything else, though _ humans _were not the guardians of choice. Automatic turrets and point defense systems, powered by some of the city’s precious electrical resources, backed by human guards was the order of the day.

“Halt,” called out one of the guards. “Who goes there?”

“Scholar-King Aaron Nerus,” Furian lied easily, well-oiled by practice while they had prepared. “And retinue.”

Immediately, the guards knelt. “We were told to expect you. Please, be welcome in our city.”

_ That’s more like it, _Furian thought, and did his best to bow regally, as a king might. “We have traveled far in a very short time. We’d like to go inside and speak to Queen Myriam.”

“Of course,” one of the guards said. “This way.”

Furian nodded again, and let the guards guide him inside. It had been a little over a decade since he’d been back in Desh’ea proper, and he hoped the guards were too busy being intimidated by royalty to notice how hungry for the sights of it he was. These were _ his _ streets, he knew them very well, but a _ stranger _wouldn’t. A stranger wouldn’t know the best places for ambushes, or the location of a specific street fight.

A stranger wouldn’t be coming home again.

As they rode towards the royal compound, people lined the streets, each holding a lantern or a candle to light the way, the tinted glass illuminating their faces in green, gold, and violet. Furian was careful not to glance at them for more than a few moments, but he could see that they weren’t as thin as some of the bandits or farmers. They were curious, reverent, but clear-eyed, not exhausted or indulging in vices to help make their lives a little easier.

In some ways, Furian resented their happiness, but in others, he couldn’t help but envy them. _ They _did not need to indulge in theatrics.

At his side, Arrin was nearly vibrating with anger, and he gestured to her, hoping that it would be enough to stay her tongue. She could vent her frustrations later, when they were safely away from eyes and ears that could bring those frustrations back to the Queen.

As processions went, it was not one of the most impressive that Furian had been part of. There had been a march at the end of one of the conflicts presided over by the old king, and he had been a mere foot soldier then. In those days, the onlookers had thrown rose petals and scraps of paper, and some had released birds. This night, they merely watched and held their lanterns.

When Furian and his companions arrived at their destination, guards decked in royal livery escorted them inside. Servants took their mounts, and then the guards formed a circle around them, walking them the rest of the way to the primary pavillion where Queen Myriam Thal’kyra awaited them.

_ No, _ Furian thought. _ She’s waiting for the Scholar-King. _

When Furian had seen her last, she had still been a princess, and a little younger than he had been, a fresh-faced soldier excited by his first glimpse of royalty. A decade later, Furian was struck by both her beauty, and the aloofness of her manner. She wore rich purple, trimmed with gold, draped delicately over her frame and falling like a waterfall to brush at her ankles, though her arms were bare. Her golden jewelry twisting and wound around her wrists, while her hands were painted in dark brown ink, contrasting with the creamy smoothness of her paler brown skin.

Her gaze, an amber-brown, swept up and down him, and she smiled.

“Greetings,” Furian began. “I am Scholar-King Aaron Neros, of Lika’nea. I am most pleased to make your acquaintance, and I hope we can come to an agreement that will please both of us.”

Myriam’s smile widened. “Of course, I do wish for that as well.” She glanced behind Furian briefly. “Your companions..?”

“Arrin, and Nirrin,” Furian said, gesturing. “My advisors, I require them to be with me as often as possible, that I might ask their advice. They should be roomed as near to me as possible.”

“Of course,” Myriam purred. “And you, close to me, so that we can continue our negotiations long into the night.”

“That would be--”

“Entirely inappropriate to discuss in such a public place, Your Majesty,” Arrin interjected, and Furian could feel the way her voice dug into his side like a sharp elbow. “We have traveled a long way to get here.”

“Oh, of course,” Myriam said. “Only the best for our guests.” She clapped her hands together twice, and each impact seemed to echo. “Show them to their rooms, and show them the hospitality of Desh’ea.”

_ Well, we passed the first test, _ Furian thought as they guards gestured them forward. _ Now all we have to do is keep it up long enough to get what we want. _

~ * ~

It was nearly midnight when the knock came on Furian’s door and he started from his daze.

He had to admit, all things considered, that he couldn’t complain about royal hospitality. Once they’d been taken to their rooms, food had been brought for them, and baths drawn. In comparison to his efforts at cleaning himself to come here, Furian could liken it to the difference between sunrise and moonrise. He smelled, now, of something faintly spicy, and his skin tingled from the sensation. The food had been good too, not so rich as to make him feel sick but fine enough that it felt entirely worthwhile to be playing such a dangerous game.

Arrin did not agree, not entirely, but she and Nirrin had shut themselves in her room and had not come out, which left Furian to think and consider, to wonder and imagine.

_ I need to learn something about Lika’nea that isn’t something any fool at a tavern would know, _ Furian thought as he lay in his bed, hands tucked behind his head. _ I’ll ask Arrin if there’s a book she can read to me so that I’ll have something to discuss with the Queen. I wonder… _

There was no point contemplating much beyond the deception. Furian knew that the longer they remained, the more likely it was that they would be discovered, which would force them to flee, and potentially lose looted treasure.

The safety of his companions was also a concern, but both of his subordinates were more than capable fighters, at least when they weren’t being overwhelmed by their foes.

When Furian didn’t immediately respond, the knock came again, a little more firm.

“Yes?” he called. “Who is it?”

“A message for you, Sire, from Queen Myriam,” called a guard. “She requests that you meet her in the gardens.”

_ I guess she really does want that private meeting, _Furian thought, and he felt his skin prickle, a sure sign of danger, or perhaps, deep attraction. Myriam was a beautiful woman, different from Arrin, but very much someone he wanted to have under his hands, to kiss and touch and taste. “I’ll be there shortly.”

“I’m to escort you to her,” the guard said. “I will wait.”

Furian rose from his bed, and quickly combed his hair and contemplated his clothing. During the bath, his things had been taken, presumably to be washed, and replaced by a loose robe that he wore open, and matching trousers. It seemed more like what one wore to bed than to go to a meeting, but perhaps, neither of them would be dressed for long.

_ If I can impress her in bed, that will make her all the more open to telling me what I want to know, like where the treasury is. _Furian took a deep breath and opened the door. He didn’t recognize the specific guard who waited, though they seemed a little young, even to his eyes.

“Thank you for waiting,” Furian said. “Take me to the Queen.”

The guard nodded once, and ushered Furian through the compound; only a few lights were on, creating islands of illumination surrounded by pools of deep shadow, though his escort seemed to know the way, navigating unerringly until they reached the queen’s chamber amidst finery and darkness.

“Thank you,” Furian said again, and knocked briefly before calling out, “it’s me.”

“Come in,” Myriam called. “I’m waiting.” 

The guard opened the door for him, and as Furian stepped across the threshold, closed it behind him. The Queen’s chambers were not as large as he feared they would be, though they could have housed a dozen of the bandits nonetheless. Within, there was a pair of richly upholstered couches, a deep, vibrant red and edged in gold, along with a low, red-brown table, offering a sense of intimacy so long as one wasn’t deeply intimidated by their opulence.

As Furian walked further in, he could see gauzy curtains draped over the walls, concealing bookshelves like massive spider webs, alluring in their anonymity. As little literacy as he possessed, he recognized the value of books to others, and a queen would possess only the most expensive and rare of tomes.

The curtains led, like the folds of a dress, towards the bed, which truly was massive, the sheets and coverlets silk and lace, rare wool and skin-soft cloth. He did not see the Queen, and for a moment, he wondered if he’d been mistaken, if this were an odd dream.

_ Did I fall asleep fantasizing about her, and this is the result? _Furian wondered, and waited for the dream to end in that moment of self-awareness. Nothing changed, and it left him to stand awkwardly in his bedclothes. “Myriam?”

“Here I am,” she called. Furian turned towards the sound of her voice, and his breath caught in his throat. The Queen of Desh’ea stepped out from one of the smaller side chambers, and like himself, she was dressed in loose, light clothing clearly meant to be worn to bed.

Unlike himself, she had taken thin cotton and white silk and turned them into regalia.

The Queen’s thick, black hair rested around her shoulders, moving like gentle waves as she walked towards him and offered him her hands. Her gaze roamed over him, absorbing his appearance as he took in hers.

Unhesitatingly, he reached out to touch her, and the moment their hands touched, there was a sense of prickling electricity he’d never felt before.

“You, ah, wanted to see me?” Furian said, drawing their clasped hands closer to his chest. “I’m here.”

“I did, and you are,” Myriam said, gentle amusement in her tone. “You’re definitely a sight to behold. I confess, my motivations are entirely selfish. I wanted the chance to see you without anyone to gawk at us or interfere.”

“I absolve you of your sins,” Furian said, and she smiled. “You’re… well, you’re a beautiful woman. I would be a fool not to come when you called.”

“One would not call you a fool, would they?” Myriam said, and stepped a little closer. “I confess, when I sent the missive to Lika’nea, I feared I would be negotiating with a small, pallid man, with a sobriquet like Scholar-King. I’m pleased to find you different.”

“The title is ironic,” Furian said, and leaned in. “Though my desire to be here is entirely sincere.”

Briefly, their foreheads touched, and Myriam pressed her lips into his. Furian kissed her back, groaning softly against her mouth. His hands let hers go, but only so that he could wrap his arms around her, running his fingers along her back. There was a hunger there, a desire that ran through him deeply. He grasped her rear in both hands and lifted her into his arms, moving towards the bed.

“You _ are _strong,” Myriam murmured against his lips. “I confess to being a little intimidated. You must be so heavy, as muscular as you are.”

“I’d lay back happily to please you,” Furian said. A few more strides took him to the bed and he set her down, though his hands lingered on her arms, moving up to her shoulders. “Does this come off?”

“It does…” Myriam said, and ran her fingers along his stomach, her touch warm. “Does this?”

“Of course,” Furian said, and need thrummed through him again. “We should undress each other.”

“Hm, I don’t think so,” Myriam said, her tone playful. “Let me undress _ you, _and I’ll show you something you’ll never forget.”

Furian’s cock pulsed with need, and he nodded once. Myriam leaned up, pushing the jacket off his shoulders, and he let the borrowed clothing fall to the floor. A moment later, her hands were on Furian’s waist, tugging his trousers down, exposing his length, already half-hard.

“Like what you see?” he asked, breathlessly, and Myriam glanced down, and then met his gaze again.

“I certainly do,” she said, smiling. “Lie down.”

Furian’s cock twitched, and he did as he was bid, and let her guide him onto his back, and then, when she took his hands and lifted them above his head, he let her, smiling up at the monarch straddling him. She smiled back, and wound ropes around his wrists, tying them firmly.

“You have some very interesting ideas in mind,” Furian noted. “What happens now?”

“Something very important that you should know,” Myriam said, and leaned in, the curve of her breasts brushing against his chest. “I’ve met Aaron Nerus before. I know what the Scholar-King looks like.”


	2. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks once again to Doomhamster for her beta reading skills.

Furian’s eyes widened and he jerked, only to be brought up short by the ropes. Queen Myriam’s expression changed from desire and interest to cold calculation, like the slamming of a door.

“When did--”

“Lika’nea is Desh’ea’s closest neighbour, why  _ wouldn’t  _ we have met face to face before, especially during state visits and dinners. Only an idiot who lives in the wilderness would believe otherwise,” Myriam hissed, then drew back. “Guards!”

So quickly that it was likely they had been merely waiting outside, soldiers rushed into the room, including the young one that had escorted Furian to the Queen’s chambers. Furian bared his teeth, and the guard, who had been friendly enough at the time, stared back coldly.

“At least give a man something to cover his dignity,” the bandit-lord said. “As I’ve got little enough left to lose.”

Myriam glared down at him, tugging her sheer nightgown around her once more. “Give him nothing to use as a weapon, but perhaps some dignity might yet be preserved. Arrest him, throw him in the cells. Are his traveling companions secured?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said one of the guards, a large, deep-voiced man. “There were some injuries, but we have them contained.”

Myriam half-turned. “Injuries?”

“The woman had a knife.”

“She’s always been good with a blade,” Furian said, trying to sound more amused than afraid. “Do they live?”

“They do, though they have been, necessarily, disarmed.” The same guard offered the Queen his arm and she took it. “We have a secure location for you to wait in while we deal with this prisoner, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” Myriam said. “Your work is excellent as always.”

“She won’t take you to bed,” Furian called as they walked away. “She has a steel trap betwixt her legs.”

The brief moment of fury he felt radiating from the Desh’ean Queen was, on the whole, worth the blow that came a moment later, snapping his head to the side. The guards subdued him, naked and bound as he was to the bed.

~ * ~

It was days later by the time Furian saw Myriam again. The first hours after his arrest and capture had been interrogation, moving in verbal circles, the guards responding to unhelpful answers with slaps or splashes of cold water. As dawn had approached, they had left him to stew in a cell, wet and cold and angry.

The next session had involved bringing Nirrin or Arrin into the room, to ask  _ them  _ questions and to strike  _ them  _ if one or both of them refused to give answers.

In the end, Furian had simply told them the truth: they had intercepted the missive meant for the true Scholar-King and intended no assassination, no kidnapping or blackmail, only robbery, as befit bandits in need of their next meal.

_ Surely, one of royal blood understands well greed and the temptation of that which isn’t theirs, but could be. _

Eventually, they had left him to his own devices, to stew and to curse his own stupidity, though they’d let him have real clothing again; a sign of trust or so they’d claimed. After all, he  _ could  _ use cloth to hang himself, or strangle a guard during an ambush, both real and credible possibilities...

...if he knew how to turn cloth into a rope or a weapon, which he did not.

_ I’m going to rot here,  _ Furian thought, leaning his head against the bars.  _ Arrin was right, this was a terrible idea. I thought I’d have days at least, not a handful of hours. If I had known… _

If he had known, perhaps he would have done more, but it was more likely that he would have done something desperate, something dangerous, to little avail. Something that would have gotten Arrin and Nirrin killed before his own ignoble death. It would have been deeply foolish to take any course that differed from this one, and this had been no clever ploy at all.

_ I didn’t think of myself as a fool, but I surely am, and now people will suffer, starve, and die for my ego.  _ None too gently, Furian hit his head against the bars and bit back a curse.

“That’s the most pathetic attempt at escape I’ve ever seen,” said the Desh’ean Queen, the remark announcing her better than any herald. Furian looked up at her, noting she had only two guards with her, figures dressed in fine armour, tempered to look like gold. He said nothing, and she frowned. “I hardly expect manners from you, but I expect to be acknowledged.”

“If you need someone like me to acknowledge someone like you, perhaps consider which one of us lives under the most dire circumstances.” Furian said, and noted when the guards twitched, but the Queen did not.

“A clever response, but I understand you like those,” Myriam said. “It’s a shame you weren’t clever  _ enough.” _

“Did you come all this way to gloat, Your Majesty?” Furian asked, narrowing his eyes. “If so, that seems petty, even from a Thal’kr.”

“I  _ own  _ you,” Myriam reminded him, and he grit his teeth. “So now that you’ve acknowledged me, shut up and listen, and you may just keep your head.”

“A singular pleasure and promise from one such as you.” Furian shifted a little, sprawling on the narrow wooden bunk, and met the Queen’s gaze easily. “You wanted to talk. So talk.”

“I am aware that you are the leader of the bandit group called the ‘Red Sands’.” Myriam’s fingers curled briefly as she enclosed the words. “Your crimes haven’t been overlooked. You’ve cost Desh’ea any number of very important things, including, potentially, an alliance with its neighbour. You owe me more than you can repay in mere blood or coin.”

“Then what do I have left to pay my debts?” Furian asked. “My body? I’m afraid you’ll find me far less suited to your needs than a toy.”

“You  _ are  _ an object dedicated to my pleasure, make no mistake,” Myriam said, holding up her hand to the guards. “Because  _ you  _ are going to tell your men, your ruffians and your blackguards, to stand down. To avoid preying on any Desh’ean merchants or clients.”

“What do you propose they eat in the meantime? Rocks?”

“I would have them deal with rival merchants, when necessary,” Myriam said, chin raised. “You’ve already proven that you’ll do anything for money, now we’re merely negotiating terms.”

_ She’s not entirely wrong,  _ Furian thought. “What if I say no? What if they do?”

“Oh, you won’t be speaking to them directly,” Myriam said, and took a step closer. To visit his cell, she wore dark green silk, as verdant as forests, with constellations of stars picked out in silver. “You’ll be sending a messenger, escorted by soldiers.  _ My  _ soldiers. If your bandits refuse this offer, I will have them slaughtered.”

“They’ll fight back,” Furian snapped, though the way she spoke the words left him feeling as though she’d thrust a dagger of ice into his heart. “You won’t take them so easily.”

“They won’t if they want to live,” Myriam pointed out. “They won’t if they want  _ you  _ to live either, and you’re something of a hero to them.” She paced a little, skirts swirling. “If you acted out of  _ such  _ desperation to save them, surely they’ll do the same for you.”

“Then you’ll need to lend me a scribe,” Furian said, gritting his teeth even as he forced the words out. “Because as you may have guessed, I’m not much one for writing.”

“You’ll get your chance,” Myriam purred, and walked towards his cell again. “Because you’ll be with me until further notice.”

“Define, ‘with’.”

“I still have designs on the Scholar-King, but it won’t hurt for him to believe he has competition,” Myriam sniffed. “You will serve as my companion, my consort. I will be on your arm at formal occasions, and every remaining camera, every poet, every painter or sculptor will make us the focus of their artistic endeavours. So much so that your bandits won’t be able to  _ avoid  _ the fingers close to your neck.”

“I was wondering when we’d get to it,” Furian muttered, even as he sat back helplessly. The Queen wasn’t wrong, really. About anything. The Red Sands would want to keep him alive, just as much as he wanted to protect them. “I didn’t think Desh’ea kept slaves.”

“Please,” Myriam said, rolling her eyes. “You can give it a thousand names, but the end result is the same. I expect an answer, by the way, and a prompt one.”

“Is there any other option?” Furian asked, laughed a little. “You have me backed into a corner, and you might as well parade me around naked as a spoil of war.”

“I don’t intend on letting anyone  _ else  _ see you naked again,” Myriam said. “You exist for my pleasure and no one else’s. Your answer.”

Furian sighed heavily, but ultimately, there was only one answer to give.

~ * ~

The first thing that happened when Furian was returned to his room -- and the fact it was the room he had been assigned when he’d still been a ‘royal guest’ did not escape him -- was meeting his new jailers. In the cell where he’d been held, they’d been hard people, cold-eyed against a prisoner’s shivers or cries, with lean bodies corded with muscle.

Here, within the royal compound, they had a similar look to them, but their clothes were different, and they were sometimes soft-handed, if not soft-eyed. They all appraised Furian’s appearance, and he could feel them finding him wanting.

“Spend three days at your Queen’s mercy, and then we’ll see how you fare,” Furian snarled at one. The woman raised an eyebrow at him and said nothing.

“Yelling at them will avail you nothing,” Myriam said, and gestured. “Your personal staff. They will make sure you are appropriately cleaned and dressed at all times, whether your appearance be public or private.”

“You’re telling me that I need to be dressed up when I’m by  _ myself,”  _ Furian said, turning to her, disbelieving. “When I’m sleeping?”

“You’ll be expected to keep up the appearance of a  _ royal  _ attendant, after all,” Myriam said. “Don’t forget it.”

“And  _ why  _ would I want to do that?” Furian said. “You’ll have me whenever you want me, but surely you don’t actually want me around you more often than necessary.”

“There’s no point to owning something if you don’t enjoy showing it off,” Myriam said coldly. “Besides, I thought you might be interested in  _ observing  _ that I’m not signing orders to scour your people from the mountains.”

Furian made a face. “Fine. If this is part of the deal--”

“It is,” Myriam said. “It most assuredly is.”

“--then I’ll submit to this process of yours.” Furian squared himself off. “Do your worst.”

Their worst was to put him in a bath and soak him, and then have people scrub every inch of his skin, checking him for disease, for anything that he could potentially pass on to the Queen and sicken her, and they did it so clinically, so coldly, that Furian couldn’t help but wonder if they’d missed a few of the Iron Men when the purges had begun, and they were being kept here.

Once he was clean enough to satisfy his minders, they had shaved him and trimmed his hair, keeping much of the same length, though neatening it, making it socially acceptable instead of wild and ragged. Then they had clad him in a simple wrap, and sent him out to be measured.

Furian had been fitted for clothing in the past, though it had been mostly armour: as a soldier, he’d needed to have armour and padded clothing made, though most foot soldiers would never obtain more than that first set. Only officers were fitted for a second set, and then a third, with each major promotion up the ranks.

This was different, and every part of him was measured, including his cock, a fact he found entirely baffling, and a little disturbing in its implications. Numbers were called out, numbers of little meaning to any but those who scurried back and forth like ants at the bidding of their queen.

_ We’re all insects to her,  _ Furian thought as he waited.  _ Things to be stepped on, eaten, used up and spat out. I’ll be one of them soon enough. _

The thought curled inside him, settling at the base of his spine with a clenching sensation, as though a hand had closed into a fist. It smacked of despair, of giving up, and he was disgusted at himself.

Once they had enough information, they dressed Furian in the clothes he had been lent before his capture, and allowed him to see Arrin and Nirrin one final time.

The pair of them had not, as such, been ill-used. They were tired, angry, and Arrin had an impressive black eye, but they were  _ alive,  _ and Furian couldn’t help but smile to see them both.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Arrin said fiercely, and embraced him. Furian clung to her for a moment, knowing it would be the last time. “You’re going to be the cleanest man at his own execution ever.”

“You did,” Furian murmured, stroking his fingers over her hair. “And, I may yet be.”

“So, that’s it then?” Nirrin asked, looking up at him worriedly. “It’s been nice knowing you?”

“Yes, but not in the way you think.” Furian took a deep breath. “You’re going to be angry.”

“I don’t see how I can be  _ angrier  _ than I am now, you great fool,” Arrin chided. “Tell us.”

“The Queen, she… has made a deal with me. Or I, with her, depending on how you feel about it. In return for pledging the Red Sands to only attack non-Desh’ean merchants, she won’t send soldiers out into the mountains to kill them.” Furian sighed. “There’s going to be more than that, I swear, but that’s the gist of it.”

“And why would we agree to a condition like that?” Arrin asked. “If we have a choice between starving to death and fighting to the last…”

“Because she’s claimed me as her consort,” Furian said. “I’m to stay at her side, you’re to go back and tell the others, and we’re all going to pretend we don’t have the royal knife to our necks.”

“That’s not…”

“Fair? Of course it’s not fucking fair.” Furian ran his hands through his hair, silky-soft from the ministration of his new jailers. “But we get to keep our lives. Yours, mine, Jossin, everyone. We get to find a way out of this because the Bitch-Queen of Desh’ea decided she wanted to use me as a pawn instead of just killing me.”

“You’re still an idiot,” Arrin said, and reached up, rapping her knuckle against his forehead. “But we knew that, and we followed you anyway. We’ll follow you now if that’s what you really want.”

_ No,  _ Furian thought.  _ I don’t want to be here. I want to be out in the mountains with you.  _ “It’s what I want. I want you to live.”

Arrin and Nirrin gave each other long looks, and then nodded together. The smaller, skinnier man threw a salute, one that would have lost him rank if there had been any left to lose, and his sometimes-lover, the one he had considered marrying, hugged him again.

“They need to leave soon,” said one of the guards. “The message is prepared for the rest of the bandits.”

“Can’t give us just a moment more?” Furian muttered, but knew the answer. It settled into his bones, into his soul. “Fine.”

“We’ll see you again,” Arrin promised as the guards escorted Furian away. “I promise we will.”

Furian said nothing, not knowing if he should warn her against it, or beg her to try.

~ * ~

“I feel, Your Majesty, that this is a mistake,” spoke Hector Meredith, Myriam’s majordomo. She narrowed her eyes, but said nothing, and he continued. “Furian of the Red Sands is dangerous, exceptionally so. He’s already proven more than capable of treachery, and you would leave yourself vulnerable to him. If you must  _ keep  _ him, lock him in a room at night, post guards at the windows and doors, or better yet--”

“Think of the scandal if it’s discovered that I keep my consort in a cell when I have no use for him,” Myriam said. “No, I don’t think I will. Your advice is heard and dismissed.”

“What if he kills you in your sleep?” Meredith asked. “Desh’ea will go to one of your siblings.”

“That’s all the reason to make sure he doesn’t,” Myriam said. “I’m aware that he’s dangerous. He’s also ambitious, but has a weakness: those commoner friends of his. He’ll behave himself to keep them safe, which will keep  _ me  _ safe.”

“There will only be so long such a plan will work if he reaches his limit.”

“I don’t intend to abuse him, if that’s what you’re implying,” Myriam said, arching a brow. “He may find it irritating and humiliating to serve as my escort, but it will go no further than that. There is stepping on people, and there is grinding your heel in.”

“If… if that is your final word, Your Majesty,” Meredith said, and bowed. “Then we will return to matters of state.”

“See that you do,” Myriam said. “Starting with making the Scholar-King  _ aware  _ of what has occurred, though this may set back my plans a fraction. I want to build up a little more time with my new consort before introducing another factor.”

“Can you be certain that the Scholar-King will take an interest in you?” Meredith asked, looking uncertain. “You wager much on a man who, by all accounts, cares little for women or the pursuits of the flesh.”

“Oh, I know he wants what I have,” Myriam said, drawing a veil around her hair and face, letting charcoal gauze drift around her, making her amber-brown eyes seem all the more luminous… or predatory. “I intend to inform him that we have the last STC on Nuceria, and that if he ever wants to see it, he needs to be a member of the royal family.”

“And this is what you’ll open with?” her majordomo asked. “That seems… to be playing things a little too openly, don’t you think?”

“Oh, no, he won’t know about that for certain until later,” Myriam said. “Spread rumours, give them time. He’ll come to me, and we’ll have a parade in his honour.”

“As… as you command, Your Majesty,” Meredith said, though there was still lingering uncertainty in his voice. Myriam dismissed him with a wave, and continued about her own business. Much of the minutiae of rulership was handled by her ministers, people of great power and fortitude. It allowed her to act as she needed to, as well as making certain all knew who the final authority was on all matters of Desh’ean civics.

Her mother had taught her that when people were at their weakest, they could be exploited for all they were worth. Her father had taught her how to be ruthless, and together they had taught her how to use others to the best of her ability.

_ I will solve the bandit problem by making their lord my servant. I will make Desh’ea strong by conquering my neighbours not through war, but through marriage, negotiation, and manipulation. I will have my heirs when and how I desire them, and in no other way.  _ Myriam smiled to herself, as though amused.  _ Long live the Queen. _

~ * ~

The day, his first as the Queen’s consort, came and went all too quickly as far as Furian was concerned. He had been there through each process, each iteration of the same business of explaining the negotiation between them. There were more people involved than he expected; he had believed the Thal’kr ruled almost unilaterally, but they did not.

More than one advisor -- particularly the man in charge of trade -- had expressed concerns about her plans, and she had explained things to them in such cold terms it made him sick.

_ She has a heart of stone, never forget that,  _ Furian had thought.  _ Not that the others are any better, realistically speaking. _

There had been a number of nobles who had made inquiries, discreet or otherwise, regarding his state of being, of the safety and ethics of keeping him as a hostage of sorts. Were it not for the fact that over half of them were trying to determine if he could be used for assassination, Furian would have found it heartwarming.

They had shared two meals together, and Furian had been silent during both of them. Instead, he’d watched Myriam, saw her working as she ate foods that were expensive, but perhaps, not rich, and answered questions and agreed to requests conveyed by her majordomo, the only one of her staff allowed to see her during meal times.

_ Except me, I suppose. _

Finally, when the appointed hour came, Furian was dressed in light clothing, trousers and an open jacket, both in soft yellow-creme cloth, and was escorted to the Queen’s chamber by guards, faces he vowed to memorize for when the escape came.

...and it would come.

Furian stared at the door briefly, then took a breath, opened it, and stepped over the threshold before closing it behind him, and he heard the guards lock the door, wondering at it briefly. Myriam wasn’t in sight, and her chambers had not changed, other than the bed being made once more, ready for occupancy.

“Go ahead and lie down,” Myriam called, and Furian started, then cursed softly. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

_ I can’t live the rest of my days on tenterhooks,  _ Furian thought, and went to lay down, tucking himself under the mass of coverings.  _ We’re going to have to come to some kind of agreement, and soon. _

Deliberately, he closed his eyes, and waited for the Desh’ean Queen to take what belonged to her.

He could feel when the lights were dimmed to nothingness because the world behind his eyelids went dark. He could feel when she got into bed because of the gentle shift of the mattress, and the subsequent creak and rustle as she moved the blankets around, and then…

...and then, nothing.

_ Come on,  _ he thought irritably, anger overcoming fear.  _ Get on with it. _

There was a faint hint of movement, and Furian braced for a hand to grasp his arm, or the Queen to speak up, but it appeared she was... 

Furian opened an eye and tilted his head a little, and noted that Myriam slept on her side, half-curled, and was shifting in place, her hair set into place with combs and pins. It was an oddly vulnerable thing, and perhaps, with a weapon, he might have even considered killing her.

“Well?” he asked, and was annoyed as much by the rasp in it as anything else. “I’m here, and you’re here. Are we going to pretend that you didn’t invite me here to bed me? You implied as much.”

“You’ve fulfilled the requirements of our bargain,” Myriam said, sounding annoyed. “You’re in my bed, you will take no other lovers. You convinced your companions to cooperate with the crown to avoid anyone dying. You’ll serve as my consort, appearing with me in public as necessary. At no point did I claim we’d have sex, aside from entrapping you, something you seemed quite enthusiastic to participate in. This is a different situation.”

Furian flushed with irritation. “I’m well aware of that, but that’s not what I mean. You ordered me into your bed and I  _ believed  _ that you intended to take what was owed to you. Are you saying that’s not the case?”

“No, it’s not,” Myriam said. “I’m not a rapist. Go to sleep.”

“The hell I will,” Furian said. “You don’t get to threaten me or my people and then pretend you’re taking some kind of obvious moral high ground. That’s not how that works. That’s not how  _ any  _ of that works. You use people. You step on people. You--”

“Yes, I do,” Myriam said, and turned over, facing him in the near darkness. “The people of this country are mine to do with as I wish. Any ruler would tell you the same thing. I would think that even, and especially, you would realize that.”

“Don’t try to turn this on--”

“You stole from my father and you were court-martialed,” Myriam said. “I had the archivists find your old record. You joined and wound up leading a group of bandits that assaults and kills people so they can eat, to steal their things and sell them for money, food, and other things. Do not pretend to me that you are some kind of moral saint, nor that you don’t also order people to your bedroll.”

Memory flashed through him of Arrin, of Nirrin, of the dozens of others over the years. “It isn’t like that, I’m not a rapist.”

“Neither am I,” Myriam snapped. “If I want companionship, I have more than enough to throw themselves into my bed when the interest arises.”

“You were  _ more  _ than happy to let people believe you were, though. Everyone thought they knew what was going to happen, and you didn’t see fit to correct them. Deciding that you’re not going to use the knife you have at someone’s throat doesn’t make you more moral if you’re still  _ threatening  _ them with it.” Furian grabbed for her arm, and Myriam deflected it, amid the rustle of sheets.

“I’ll make a public  _ fucking  _ declaration, if it will let us both get some sleep tonight,” Myriam said, letting the profanity spill from royal lips. She slammed her palm into his shoulder, though the blow was less than it could have been.

“If you wanted to get some sleep tonight, perhaps you should have let me sleep in my own damn bed,” Furian returned, and grabbed for her wrist again, this time holding firm. Myriam half pushed herself up. “Your Majesty.”

“If you think you can get your way by being obnoxious, you’re wrong.” She was on him in a moment, gripping at his shoulder and forcing him onto his back. “Be silent.”

“Oh no, the last time you had me like that, I was arrested.” Furian rolled, flipping her onto her back. A moment later, they were rolling and grappling, hissed insults filling the air until, finally, Furian was on top of Myriam, pinning her down, her hair half-spilling out onto the pillows as she glared up at him. His breath caught for a moment as he stared at her.

“Well,” Myriam said, her wrists soft under his firm grip. “What now?”

As though heeding a siren’s call, Furian’s mouth lowered to hers and he kissed her. The Desh’ean Queen’s mouth was firm under his, though not pliant. If anything, when she pressed herself into a kiss, it was the second move in what promised to be a protracted war.

Furian made a soft noise and loosened his grip on her, and Myriam’s hands slipped free, to run along his sides, greedy to touch him, until they rested on his hips, while his mouth worked, tongue trying to find entrance into hers. When she finally let him, her mouth was warm, and he groaned, his hips moving against hers reflexively.

“I’m putting…” she murmured between kisses, as her hands went to tug at the drawstring of his trousers. “I’m putting the knife away. You understand that?”

“Yes,” Furian breathed, and rose a little, to stroke his hands along her stomach. “I know.”

“Then get  _ on  _ with it,” Myriam said, annoyed. “We don’t have all night and  _ you  _ were the one complaining about wanting to sleep.”

“Oh, is  _ that  _ how it is…” Furian smirked at her and moved back a little. Myriam looked outraged for a moment, and then he took her by the hips and turned her over roughly, then pressed himself into her backside. She made a muffled noise, and he pressed his lips to her ear. “You have a lot of dignity for someone about to be fucked into a mattress.”

“I’m not impressed so far,” Myriam muttered, though her hips rose, and her back arched a little. “All talk and no action, no wonder you were barely successful.”

Furian’s hand came down to swat her and she jumped. “You complain a lot for someone who usually gets her satisfaction from toys and fingers.”

“You don’t know that,” she fired back quickly, and Furian began to tug her nightgown up, running his hands over the curve of her ass and the long, smooth plain of her back. He leaned in, pressing his lips to the base of her spine, and then moved upwards while she wiggled under him, her hips rising enough that he  _ could  _ fit a hand under her, to cup her mound and stroke over her clothed entrance. “Furian…”

“You’re getting it on your hands and knees, and you’re going to like it.”

“Barbaric,” she hissed. “Is that how your bandit women like it?”

“They beg for it,” Furian lied. “The way you are.”

“I will  _ not,”  _ Myriam insisted. “I order you to hurry.”

“No,” Furian said, and leaned over her as she threatened to twist around. Myriam struggled briefly, and then, braced herself against the bed on folded arms and elbows. Furian eased his weight, but only enough so that he could hook his thumb into his waistband and pull his trousers down. He could see himself in the twilight darkness, hard and eager and gripped his cock in one hand, stroking slowly. As he moved against his hand, he let it bump against Myriam’s backside, and felt her wiggle.

“You’re the  _ worst  _ lover in Desh’ea,” Myriam muttered. “Honestly.”

“Not by a long shot,” Furian murmured, and let himself go, pressing against her backside as his fingers worked under her, stroking over her mound again, fingers teasing through cloth at her clit, pressing fine cotton into swollen and eager flesh. “Beg.”

“No,” Myriam said, and her hips rocked against his fingers, the denial trailing off into a soft moan. Furian slipped his fingers under the cloth, and she jerked hard, though he pressed into her, not letting her move far. His fingers teased around her entrance, barely dipping into it and then moving before she could push onto them. “Furian!”

“I had wondered if you remembered my name,” the bandit-lord murmured in her ear. “Myriam. You know what you have to do to get what you want.”

Myriam gritted her teeth, and pressed herself back up into him, grinding her backside against his cock and Furian grunted, bracing himself against the bed. “Please.”

“Please, who?” Furian said, withdrawing his fingers, and letting them rest on the band of her underwear. “I want to be sure you’ll say it later.”

“I’m going to get you for this,” Myriam promised darkly. “Please, Furian.”

“There’s more I want to hear, but that will do, for now,” Furian said, and tugged her underwear down until it tangled around her upper thighs. He fit a hand between her legs, opening her to him, and then moved in closer, moulding himself to her backside. He guided his cock to her entrance, and then braced himself against her hip. “Ready?”

“Oh, for the love of--” Myriam cut off with a cry as he thrust into her roughly, and her whole body arched. He gripped at her hip as he held himself inside her for a long moment, letting her writhe, waiting for her to speak the words again without his prompting. It took no more than a handful of heartbeats. “Please, Furian…”

“Good,” he breathed, and withdrew, only to thrust into her again. There was no resistance, no hesitation as Myriam rocked under him, and pressed her face into the pillow as she cursed at him, only to plead a moment later. She was warm under him and so slick, so eager that he feared he’d slip out of her. Instead, he moved his other hand under her, pressing his fingers into her clit, and she ground against them, moving rapidly between the two sensations.

“Please… please…” she whispered, muffled. “God, Furian…”

Furian felt himself shudder, and dug his toes into the bed, thrusting harder, rocking them both forward as he held her. He wanted to see her naked, suddenly, to look into her eyes, and see that cold defiance replaced by need and lust. He wanted to know what her breasts tasted like, sheened with sweat. He wanted her and he already had her.

_ Next time,  _ he promised himself silently.  _ I’ll have that next time. _

“Fuck me,” the Desh’ean Queen begged. “Fuck me, fuck me,  _ fuck me--” _

Furian worked faster, the sound of skin striking skin accelerating until it was one, single sound, interwoven with his own grunts and Myriam’s cries. The moment came soon after as she cried out, the moment his release crested through him and he spilled into her, and he held her tightly, to avoid making a mess of her. It would have been… undignified to do otherwise.

_ Not that I care about her dignity at all,  _ Furian insisted to himself, knowing it was a lie the moment he thought it.  _ Or her. _

Myriam sank into the bed, and Furian went with her, pressing his body over hers, warm and panting with exertion. He felt her hand fuss between them, and he rose slightly. Oddly, she grasped for one of his hands and twined her fingers into his before settling with a satisfied sigh. Gently, he eased off of her and moved to lay on his side. He ran his free hand along her side, tugging her nightgown up the rest of the way, trailing his fingers along her damp skin, and then down, along her stomach and between her legs.

Myriam moaned, then moved to pull her nightgown off and faced him. The look of satiation on her face was almost what he wanted, and he couldn’t help but stare. “Well, take the rest of it off. We’re not done yet.”


End file.
